


Inevitability

by Theyfightcrime



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Accident, Character Death, Gen, Guns, Oneshot, POV Third Person, Pre-Canon, but not like wes or grady, some swearing I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23347369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theyfightcrime/pseuds/Theyfightcrime
Summary: Wes’ head spun as he choked down another gasp of breath, and Grady knelt down in front of him, hands shaking.CAN’T GO HOME.Wes wheezed again, and watched Grady’s expression darken as he tasted blood on his lips.COME ON.Or, alternatively, a vignette about the pivotal night that led them to start working for Fargo.
Relationships: Mr. Numbers & Mr. Wrench (Fargo)
Kudos: 12





	Inevitability

The spring sky was bruising over in shades of purple and blue, and the trees behind Wes’ house were dark against the punctuated flashes of white hot gunfire. 

Every few seconds, Grady’s fingers would twitch, and it would flash again— a moment of illumination, and then a tin can on the back fence would spring to life, catching the light as it ricocheted off into the woods.

Wes watched from the old folding chair on the patio, his gaze trained on Grady’s profile. The steady roll of the recoil, and the hard-set way he frowned, jaw forward.

He was taller now than he’d been— lean and scrappy, with an uneven scruff across his jaw and a way of holding himself that made his teachers uneasy. But still, his expression was the same as always— vacant, but unmistakably challenging if you looked him directly in the eyes.

After the 8th shot, he lowered his arm, beginning to reload. Then, fresh ammunition inside, he held it out to Wes.

It was difficult to see his fingers in the evening light, but Wes could still make out the offer.

DO YOU WANT TO TRY?

He shook his head, idly tossing his baseball between his hands. He’d shot it before, the first time Grady had nicked it from the lockbox in his father’s closet, and hadn’t enjoyed it. He didn’t like how heavy it felt— and Grady had steadier hands.

He raised his arms again— perfectly geometric, almost— and Wes watched as another tin can flew back into the underbrush. 

It was one of those early spring evenings that may as well have been winter. It had been a blindingly sunny day, and the snow had melted into a thick slush that was freezing below their feet as the temperature dropped around them. Wes wasn’t cold— he never was— but he could see Grady shiver despite his coat as he fired the gun twice more, before tucking it into his jacket.

I’M GOING INSIDE.

Wes hoisted himself out of the deck chair, following Grady into the house.

Everything in the kitchen was bathed in the dim yellow glow of long-lasting lightbulbs. Dishes in the sink, stains on the towels, and grime around the drain, all cast in a golden-grey. Grady flung open the cabinets one by one, grimacing at the contents, before pulling a beer from the fridge.

He handed it to Wes, and then took another for himself, opening it against the cabinet and taking a swig. Wes watched for a moment, before returning his to the fridge.

WHY?

MOM NOTICES, Wes signed, shrugging.

Grady shrugged. WE CAN BUY MORE.

Wes let his shoulders droop. MOM TOOK THE CAR.

DRIVE MY DAD’S.

Wes shrugged again, leaning back against the fridge and watching Grady as he finished his beer. It was one of those evenings where Grady was a live wire for no reason-- twitchy and anxious, and easily distracted. He knew better than to ask him about it.

COME ON, Grady signed, dropping the empty bottle into the bin. MY HOUSE.

Wes followed him out the front door, finding that the dusty sunset had faded into a muted shade of blue-black. The weather was wrong for stars, but the moon glowed from behind the cloud cover, casting the ice and snow in an eerie shade of silver.

Grady tossed Wes the keys to his father’s car as they approached the house, and Wes caught them one-handed. Grady’s father’s car was nice-- a lot nicer than Wes’ mother’s, though that wasn’t saying much. It had been new when they’d bought it, but that was before his father disappeared.

Things had been different since then.

He unlocked the doors and slid into the driver’s seat while Grady tapped his fingers on the dashboard. They did this often enough-- sometimes Wes’ mom sent them out to buy beers, always paired, because Grady didn’t drive and Wes was under 18. He didn’t enjoy the errands, but he did like the drive.

The roads were slick but empty, and the drive was uneventful. Grady fiddled incessantly with the radio dial-- Wes didn’t know what he was looking for, but nothing seemed to make him happy. 

He waited outside while Grady went in to buy the beers. Leaning back against the headrest, watching as his friend stalked the shelves, exchanged words with the cashier, and shivered as he left the store.

YOU GOT IT?

Grady hoisted two six packs into the backseat in response, returning to the passenger’s seat and cranking up the heat in the car.

Wes expected him to turn on the radio, but he didn’t. Instead, he stared out the window, knees up on the dashboard, arms crossed over his chest.

This was unusual. Wes kept glancing at him out of the corner of his eye-- at his unruly curls, his hard frown. Had something happened inside? Or was it nothing? They were almost home, maybe--

He felt a shock run through the car, and he looked back at the road just in time to see a deer crash against the front window. He hit the brakes instinctively, but it was no good-- the animal went hurling off onto the road as he jerked the wheel, spinning out of control.

When he opened his eyes, he felt blood running down his face, and there was something constricting his chest. He tried to breathe, but every time he tried, it felt tighter and tighter. Still as he fumbled for the door handle, he only had one thought in his head-- Grady.

He didn’t know how he held himself upright, but he stumbled around the car, one hand clutching his ribcage while he steadied himself with the other. By the time he reached the passenger side door, he had fallen to his knees, and was wheezing so hard he could barely breathe.

Still, he hurled the door open, expecting the worst. He was taken aback at first-- he looked perfectly intact. Eyes open, no blood in sight. But still, he had a dazed expression that Wes recognized as a very, very bad thing.

He grabbed Grady by the arm, tugging at him, trying to pull him out of the car. He seemed to come to when Wes touched him, and he shook his head, stumbling out of the passenger’s seat, lips moving in a way that Wes couldn’t read.

Wes’ head spun as he choked down another gasp of breath, and Grady knelt down in front of him, hands shaking.

CAN’T GO HOME.

Wes wheezed again, and watched Grady’s expression darken as he tasted blood on his lips.

COME ON.

Grady pulled himself to his feet, grabbing Wes by one arm and hoisting it over his shoulders. It hurt more than he had the words for, but after a moment, he forced himself to stand, and then to walk, step by step, into the night.

He was so focused on moving one foot in front of the other that he almost didn’t notice when they arrived on Grady’s street. All along the row, the lights were off.

How long had it been?

Grady left him at the doorstep, sitting so far back he was nearly lying on the steps. Wes was happy to stop-- the snow had soaked into his boots, and he’d begun to lose feeling in his legs a while ago. The wheezing had more or less stopped, but now a steady trickle of blood bloomed in his mouth whenever he breathed.

He clutched his side again, and swallowed it back down.

A shadow moved inside the house, and he turned a second too late. Something hard made contact with his back, sending him rolling down the front steps.

He screwed his eyes shut as he landed on the icy pavement, feeling two more kicks connect with his stomach. He braced himself for a third, but it never came.

He supposed that if he could hear, he’d have registered the gunshot. Instead, all he felt was the way Grady’s father fell-- hard and cold and dead-- against the ground.

He coughed again, and this time bile came up, black and red and vicious. When he looked up, Grady was at the top of the steps, still holding the gun.

He rushed down the steps, and Wes could see his lips moving. He was shouting something, maybe, but he couldn’t tell what he was saying. Not in the dark.

Wes sat up, looking down at Grady’s father. Everything seemed to speed up and slow down at once-- there was blood in the snow, some of it his, some of it not. His mind was racing-- had anyone heard the gunshot? They must have. Someone was going to call the police, someone was going to find out--

He saw the inevitability play out as he watched the blood run from the hole on Grady’s father’s skull. The police would arrive, and they’d be taken in-- they’d maybe look at him twice before throwing him into juvie, while Grady would be tried as an adult. An adult, who shot his own father in the back of the head with a stolen gun after stealing and crashing his car. They couldn’t plead not guilty, not with his fingerprints on the gun and the trail so clear. And there’s no way they’d care that Grady’s father deserved it-- not a jury of their peers.

How long would he get? Twenty years? Forty? A lifetime?

By the time he got out, who would he be? Incarcerated at 18, and out after so much time? If he was anything like the men Wes’ father used to run with, he’d end up back in within two months, if he wasn’t killed in prison first.

And Wes? There wasn’t anything for him without Grady.

Grady pulled at his sleeve, and Wes shook his head, stepping back away from the body. There was only one way he could get out of this, and it shone bright and clear above everything else-- the only way out.

He stumbled up the stairs, dragging Grady along behind him, grip tight on his wrist. Inside, he took the phone off the hook and dialed the number he didn’t even realize he’d memorized.

Grady still had that dazed expression-- his eyes a little bit unfocused, confused and a little bit hazy. His expression didn’t clear as Wes shoved the receiver into his hands.

TELL HIM IT’S WES, AND I’M CALLING IN THAT FAVOR.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to AnOrchidIsNotAFlower, PrettyMissOdd, and WinterWinterWinter.


End file.
